In The Genes
by Alice Day
Summary: A consulting detective and a diagnostician from Princeton must reluctantly join forces to solve a mystery that threatens them both. Moriarty never expected this...
1. Interphase

**Disclaimer:** All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Moff" Moffat, the BBC, Fox, David Shore, Katie Jacobs, Bryan Singer, et al. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Author's Note:** Because **rexregirebellis** asked for it in the Make Me A Monday - Week 1 post, because **jupiter_ash** wrote the amazing "A House and A Holmes", and because I apparently write FASTER if I'm multitasking on multiple stories, here's part 1 of 5 of "In The Genes." God help me. And if anyone else thinks Professor Emily Holmes bears a striking resemblance to Joanna Lumley, well...good.

* * *

In The Genes: Interphase

By Alice Day

* * *

They'd picked a café on the corner of Albany and Longford Streets, mainly due to the fact that it was almost empty and would give them some privacy. Seated at a corner table, the doctor watched his tall companion swirl a mug of tea, pale eyes staring into the gritty dregs as if reading his own fortune.

"I think...this is the foulest tea I've ever had," he decided.

"It wasn't my idea to eat here," the doctor pointed out, forking another bite of fried egg into his mouth.

"Hasn't stopped you from sampling the cuisine, though." The tall man grimaced at the plates of food in front of them. "That really is disgusting. All that grease is going straight into your arteries - you're going to need an angioplasty after this."

The doctor sighed and put down his fork. "Yes, because hanging around with you won't kill me first," he groused. "I'm hungry, all right? We've been running around like a couple of gibbons on crack all day."

"Pfft - eating," the tall man sniffed, leaning his head against the dingy white wall of the café and glaring at the ceiling in what his friend recognized as all-too familiar boredom. "Besides, you're enjoying yourself."

The doctor pushed away his plate. He was, but letting his companion know that was never a good idea. "Why don't you try checking your phone?" he said, trying for an even tone. "I know you've been getting texts - the damn thing's been beeping all morning. Maybe there's a case."

"Why bother? If it was important, they'd call."

"Oh, for God's sake, House, just check the damn phone."

Gregory House scowled, banging his mug on the table a little harder than necessary. In return, James Wilson deliberately shoved another forkful of egg into his mouth. Their attendance at an international conference on internal medicine was supposed to have been a reward for House staying clean all year, as well as a chance for Princeton-Plainsboro to make a name for itself on the wider stage. In his more cynical moments, Wilson knew full well that Cuddy paid for his membership and ticket to make sure House stayed out of trouble while in England.

_Yeah, because I have so much control over him_, Wilson thought, chewing stolidly. _He's behaving himself because he knows he doesn't have any pull over here - that and he doesn't want Cuddy to leave him._

Before he could suggest yet again that House stop acting like a three-year-old and check his messages, the diagnostician's phone rang and House glanced at the number. Much to Wilson's surprise, his friend paled, salt-and-pepper stubble standing out against suddenly milky skin. "I need to take this outside," he muttered, grabbing his cane and hobbling out of the café as fast as he could go.

_That can't be good._ Bemused, Wilson took another sip of his lukewarm tea (which wasn't nearly as bad as House said, and was still a hell of a lot better than what passed for coffee over there) and waited for his friend to come back inside. When House did, a few minutes later, his color was back, almost too much. In fact, he looked-

Wilson paused, mug halfway to his mouth. _Oh, hell._ He knew that look. Somehow, somewhere, some idiot had pissed House off on a thermonuclear level, and the missile silos were about to return fire. "Okay, what's wrong?" he demanded.

House grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging into it. "We've got a case," he snapped.

"What - _we_?"

"Yes, _we_," House said testily. "Since the Three Stooges are on the wrong side of the Atlantic right now, I need your help."

Wilson looked at the rest of his food, and sighed. "Fine. What's the case?"

But House was already limping back out the cafe door. Wilson grabbed his own jacket, tossing payment and what was undoubtedly a huge tip on the table, and caught up with the diagnostician just as he reached the curb. "House, what's the case?"

Ignoring him, House raised his cane and yelled, "Taxi!" As if by magic, a Black Cab pulled to a stop in front of him.

"Where to, mate?" the driver asked.

"University College Hospital on Euston Road - it's an emergency," House ordered, opening the back door and lumbering inside. Wilson climbed in after him, just managing to shut the door before the cab surged forward.

The oncologist fell onto the seat, grunting with the effort. "Okay, _now_ are you going to tell me what's going on?" he demanded.

House frowned into the distance, his fingers clenching and unclenching the cane handle. "Someone's been poisoned."

"Who?"

As if it was a physical effort to focus, the diagnostician finally looked at Wilson, blue eyes glowing almost incandescent with rage.

And underneath that...fear? "My son," House muttered.

###

They were greeted in Admitting by a sleek brunette with a Blackberry that seemed to be surgically attached to her hand. "Dr. House, Dr. Wilson," she said in honey-smooth tones. "I'm Jocasta, Mr. Holmes's PA. He asked me to bring you up."

She turned and swept past the security checkpoint without a pause. Wilson noticed the security guard kept his gaze firmly on his desk, not even registering their passage. More importantly, House didn't make a crack about the PA's (admittedly nice) rear or ask how personal her assisting could get. He just limped silently behind, his face a mask with dangerously glittering eyes.

An elevator took them up to the British equivalent of an ICU, and Jocasta ushered them into what had to be the doctor's lounge. The oncologist noted the two suited men with faint but telltale shoulder bulges waiting outside the lounge door, and two more waiting (no - _stationed_) outside another door further down the hall. _Whoever this Mr. Holmes is, he's got serious pull - and he has something to do with House's son. Great._

Wilson was still trying to wrap his head around that particular bombshell. At some point in the past, Gregory House had reproduced, a tidbit he'd never bothered to share with Wilson before. And the oncologist knew damn well Cuddy had no idea about her maybe-kind of-eventual stepson. _Yeah, this is not going to end well._

Inside the lounge, Jocasta ghosted over to an upholstered chair and focused on her Blackberry. House and Wilson were left with two people seated at a battered round conference table; one of them, an urbane-looking man in a three-piece suit that looked custom-made, rose and gave them a tight, humorless smile. "Ah. Doctor House," he said, his tone cordial but strained. "And Dr. Wilson, of course. Thank you for coming."

Wilson waited for House to say something. Instead, the diagnostician limped up to the other person at the table, an elegant older woman in a fashionable jacket and skirt. Her blonde hair, shot with silver, was in an immaculate French twist, and she rose gracefully to meet House's stumping arrival, taking his hand in her own.

"Hello, Greg," she said, her voice a warm alto. "I'm glad you came."

House sighed. "Emily," he replied, either unable or unwilling to meet her eyes. "It's been a long time."

"Yes it has," she agreed. "I'm sorry to interrupt your conference, but we need your help." She glanced at Wilson, giving him a pleasant nod. "Hello, Dr. Wilson. I'm Emily Holmes - I don't know if Greg explained the situation to you yet."

"Not all of it," House muttered. "Wilson, this is Professor Emily Holmes, Regius Professor of Mathematics at Brasenose College." He scowled. "And her son Mycroft."

Mycroft's answering smirk was bland. Wilson's attention swiveled back and forth between the two men, trying to find a resemblance. _The age difference alone - there's no way-_

"Oh, for God's sake, _he's_ not mine." With an annoyed huff, House dropped into one of the conference chairs. "His brother Sherlock is. And speaking of my spawn, how the hell did he wind up in an _explosion_?"


	2. Prophase

**Disclaimer:** All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Moff" Moffat, the BBC, Fox, David Shore, Katie Jacobs, Bryan Singer, et al. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Author's Note:** Blending a 90-minute show with a 60-minute show is really playing havoc with my plot structure, so this may be a little longer than I originally intended, sorry!

* * *

In The Genes: Interphase

By Alice Day

* * *

Wilson blinked, confused. "Wait - explosion?" he said to House. "I thought you said he'd been poisoned."

House rubbed his mouth, giving Mycroft a grudging look. "How much can I tell him?"

Mycroft cocked his head slightly as he considered the oncologist. "Oh, I think Dr. Wilson is quite trustworthy, judging by his dossier," he said.

_"Dossier?"_

"Gentlemen, please," Emily said with a firm smile, taking a seat and waving for the men to do the same. "It's quite simple, really. My son Sherlock works with the Met - the London Metropolitan Police Service - as a consulting detective. The explosion happened while he was investigating a case - he'd made arrangements to meet a certain individual two nights ago at a local swimming pool."

Mycroft cleared his throat, looking oddly guilty. "The person Mummy is referring to is a very well-connected criminal named James Moriarty," he said. "Sherlock's been fencing with him for the better part of a month, trying to map the structure of Moriarty's organization - so that he could bring it crashing down, I suspect." The slight, disdainful flare of his nostrils indicated his opinion of that particular activity. "Needless to say, Moriarty isn't keen on the idea, and has been throwing my brother quite the series of distracting puzzles to solve. I'm afraid they're rather well-matched when it comes to intellect." He gave his mother a wry smile. "Are you sure you didn't have one last love child while we were off at boarding school?"

Emily's return smile was just as wry. "Quite sure, darling. In any case, Moriarty had Sherlock's flatmate - a former Army doctor named John Watson - kidnapped, strapped into a vest covered with Semtex, and waiting for Sherlock at the pool. My son managed to get Dr. Watson out of the vest, but was then forced to shoot the explosives as a distraction."

Wilson sat back, feeling like he'd suddenly been transported into a Bond movie. _Criminals, kidnapping, bomb vests - my God, are suicidal tendencies hereditary?_ "Wait," he blurted. "Who was he trying to distract?"

Mycroft sighed. "The twelve snipers who had laser rifle targets on my brother and Dr. Watson," he said. "Moriarty's employees, most likely mercenaries. Luckily, the vest didn't contain nearly as much explosive as Sherlock thought, and Dr. Watson pushed them both into the pool after Sherlock triggered the explosion. As a result, they both survived with only minor injuries - at least, Dr. Watson did. Sherlock-" He took a breath, flicking another look at his mother before continuing. "Something is wrong with Sherlock. He's nauseated, feverish, and has been complaining of severe headaches and chest pains since the explosion."

House gave the younger man a flat look. "Did you check for anthrax?"

"Of course," Mycroft said testily. "It came back negative, as did tests for common flu strains, Ebola, West Nile virus, and assorted weaponized viri. Our profile on Moriarty suggests that Sherlock was exposed to some sort of toxin during the explosion. But all the lab tests my people have run on his blood, Dr. Watson's blood, and the detritus we collected from the blast have come back negative for the standard spectrum of toxins."

"So you're looking in the wrong places," House said, leaning forward and resting clasped hands on his cane. "Which is where I come in."

"Precisely," Mycroft said. "We need your diagnostic ability to figure out what's wrong, and stop my brother from getting any worse." A corner of his mouth twitched at the word "brother", as if shrugging off the other familial relationship at play here. "The likelihood is some sort of slow-acting poison, as that's Moriarty's favorite tool - he prefers to kill from a distance."

The room went quiet, the only sound being the steady clicking from Jocasta's Blackberry. Finally, House frowned. "Let's say I figure it out - which I will, by the way. What if there's no antidote?"

Mycroft shook his head. "That doesn't fit Moriarty's profile," he said. "He likes to play with his victims, dangling hope just outside their grasp. There's an antidote - he just doesn't think we can find it."

House's frown turned wolfish. "Little bastard hasn't met me yet, has he?" he muttered. "Okay, I want all the records and test results, every single damn thing you have. And I'll want to run my own tests."

Jocasta was already at Mycroft's shoulder, typing in instructions. "You'll have a lab and technician at your disposal," she announced.

"Good. Now find me an office, a whiteboard, and some markers." He hefted his cane. "And a jumbo tennis ball."

###

Within an hour, the frighteningly efficient Jocasta had delivered in spades. An isolation room at the end of the ward hallway would become House's office for the duration; he'd "borrowed" the small conference table from the attendings' lounge, and stacks of files already formed a paper monolith on it. A whiteboard, liberated from some unwitting doctor's office and still bearing what looked like a smudged vitamin regimen, was propped against the wall, a rainbow of dry-erase markers and an eraser in a basket next to the board. And from somewhere, Jocasta had even located an oversized tennis ball, which House - stretched out on the isolation room's bed - was currently tossing into the air when Wilson came in with two cups of vending machine coffee.

"Thought you could use some caffeine," he said, putting one of the cups on the bed's rolling tray.

House grunted, turning the tennis ball in his hands. "You ever want to kill me, Wilson?"

The oncologist's eyebrows rose at that. "I've had the occasional fantasy, yes."

"No, I mean really want to kill me. Plan it out in your mind, in detail."

"In that case, no," Wilson said, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "To be honest, I always figured it was going to be a crime of passion."

House smirked. "I _knew_ you were hot for me."

"Screw you."

"See?" The smirk disappeared, and he tossed the tennis ball again. "If this Moriarty guy is as smart as they say he is, then I'm betting he went creative on this one. I can't waste time looking for horses - I need to hit the zebra house running."

Wilson nodded at the old medical school saw about hoofbeats and the lowest common denominator of equine. "But you don't want to risk missing something mundane," he said. "Which is where I come in."

"Preciseamundo." House waved a hand at the door. "And you can start by taking a fresh history. See if he can remember any particular smells or tastes during the explosion - that could help."

_He._ Not Sherlock, not the personal noun. "Don't you think you should go see him yourself?"

"Nope."

Wilson fought off the sudden urge to grab House's cane and whack him over the head with it. It was one thing for him to play hands off with his patients; it was something else again to avoid his son's hospital room. "You do realize this isn't just any patient, right?" he snapped. "This is your son. Your only offspring, as far as I know."

With a grunt, House sat up on the bed. "Yeah, about that," he said. "I really don't need you channeling Cameron right now, so listen up. Thirty years ago, I was seduced by a very hot visiting math professor at Johns Hopkins. We spent a great weekend getting horizontal, and then I graduated and started prepping for medical school. Nine months after that, I get an envelope with a birth certificate and a picture of this little scrunched up troll who looked like Winston Churchill, with a thank you note explaining that Mr. Professor Holmes was newly infertile due to a belated bout of mumps, and I'd been tapped to pinch hit as substitute stud." It came out in the same flat tone that he used to perform a differential diagnostic; another fact to be added to a case. "There were no strings attached - I didn't have to pay child support or have any contact with the kid, she just thought I'd like to know, thank you, buh-bye."

Wilson winced, imagining House's reaction to the news that he'd fathered an illegitimate child. _Like biological father, like son. Jesus, no wonder he thinks everyone lies._ "Didn't Heart do a song about that?" he said, trying for a joke.

House shot him a dirty look. "Don't even start. Look, the sex was fantastic, and Emily made it very clear I didn't have to have any contact with the kid, so I didn't. I'm just saying that, as far as I'm concerned, I'm not Sherlock Holmes' father - Siger Holmes is. All I did was donate some genetic material."

After a moment, the oncologist nodded. "Okay, then, I'll get the history." He headed to the door, then paused. "Have you - ever met him?"

House paused. The cynical mask flickered for a moment, revealing a flash of what Wilson suspected was regret, then settled back into place. "No. He knows about me, but - no. Trust me, he doesn't want to see me, either." He started tossing the tennis ball in the air again, already back in diagnostic space.

###

Absently toying with the frayed sticking plaster covering a scrape on his cheekbone, John Watson read Sherlock's medical chart for what seemed like the hundredth time, juggling symptoms in his head.

Intermittent fever. Nausea, with some vomiting. Chest pain. Headaches, one so bad that Sherlock had collapsed on the couch at Baker Street with a breathless shriek of pain, long-fingered hands clutching his head like it was about to burst. That was when John called the ambulance, riding with it to University College Hospital and a waiting battery of medical tests.

He'd called Mycroft after that. Sherlock wasn't happy about it, kept saying that his brother had undoubtedly used the CCTV network to watch the ambulance speed through London's streets. "Safe in his web, like the fat spider he is," Sherlock added with a sneer. But John knew that something was wrong, something related to the explosion at the swimming pool. The blast from the Semtex vest he'd been strapped into had simply been too small, and the grey, oily residue it spread around the pool looked like nothing John had ever seen at a bomb site. Moriarty was playing with them again, another round of this insane game of wits between himself and Sherlock.

And this time, it was Sherlock's turn to be a pawn.

A phrase from some of the squaddies he'd tended in Kandahar drifted through John's mind. _Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil, for I am the meanest motherfucker in the Valley._ He smiled grimly. If it was Sherlock's turn to walk there, then he was damn well going to have the meanest motherfuckers in the Valley on his side.

Which is why he sat in Sherlock's hospital room, gun securely tucked under his jumper, while Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson combed the swimming pool site for evidence, and Mycroft pulled NHS and governmental strings with his usual efficiency. Sherlock was installed in a private room, with what looked like SAS in plainclothes at the door and at the ward entrance. John wouldn't be surprised if someone, probably a hapless intern, was required to taste the bland hospital food before it was allowed into the room. Samples of their blood were in God knows how many labs by now, being sifted and strained for whatever was attacking Sherlock's system. After the fifth needle jab, Sherlock barked that if his brother wanted him to look like a junkie again, he'd damn well better start providing cocaine as well. Soon afterwards, a temporary venous port was inserted into the back of Sherlock's hand, for easier sampling.

And none of it helped. John glanced up from the chart, at the man dozing in the hospital bed. There was something terribly wrong about seeing Sherlock Holmes _doze_. He was supposed to be alert, focused, all long limbs and cold logic as he paced like a caged panther, occasionally gripping those ridiculous curls as he pieced together clues in his head until he could see Moriarty's grand design.

He wasn't supposed to be in pain, lightly sedated against the thunderclap headaches, and steadily weakening. This wasn't supposed to happen.

John's fingers tightened on the metal chart back, knuckles whitening with the strain. In that final moment at the swimming pool, before Sherlock pulled the trigger, he knew he had reverted to training, becoming a soldier again. Soldiers understood death, knew how to stare it down. Dying with Sherlock was an acceptable outcome if it meant they took Moriarty with them.

But Moriarty got away. And Sherlock-

_No. You can't die, dammit. You can't leave me like this._

Sherlock's eyes opened, irises slightly unfocused. "I assure you, John, I have no plans to die," he murmured. "That would give Moriarty far too much satisfaction."

John released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Should I ask?"

Sherlock huffed gently. "You've been studying my medical chart obsessively since we arrived - obviously you're trying to determine what kind of toxin or contaminant could cause my symptoms, with no success. Your knuckles just popped slightly when you clenched the chart holder, an indicator of stress. And while I admit to having certain moderately unusual habits, your stay at 221b Baker Street seems to have been quite satisfactory." A thin, V-shaped smile appeared for a second, then was gone. "Putting it all together, you had a sudden premonition of my death and what it would hold for you, and found it distressing."

John pried a hand loose, shaking it until he could feel the blood running into his fingers again. "Yeah, well, you can't really blame me, can you," he muttered.

The smile was back. "On the contrary - I'm flattered. I can't think of many people who would give a damn about my continued existence. As it stands, I suspect Mycroft will need to pressgang some of his minions just to make up a sufficient number of pallbearers if I die."

Not when - _if_. "They're still running tests," John said, falling back on his medical training for comfort more than anything. "I think half of my total blood volume is sitting in test tubes somewhere."

Sherlock held up the hand with the venous port. "Have them install one of these – makes donating ever so much easier."

"Yeah. How are you feeling?"

"Unpleasantly stoned." Sherlock scrubbed at his face, wincing at the light stubble here. "The one time I get to have all the drugs I like, and I can't enjoy it at all because I need a clear head."

Before John could answer, the door opened and a brown-haired man in a lab coat came in. "Hi, Sherlock?" he said, reaching into his coat pocket. "Sorry to interrupt - I'm-"

John didn't think. He simply stood up, pulled the gun from his waistband and aimed it at the new arrival's center of mass.

The man went pale and stopped, hand still in pocket. "-Dr. Wilson," he trailed off, sounding decidedly less chipper now. "Oh, God."

Sherlock stared at the man for a moment, then flopped back on the bed. "No," he moaned. "No, no, NO!"

"What's wrong?" John demanded, gun still aimed at 'Dr. Wilson.'

"What's wrong? _That_ is what's wrong," Sherlock said, pointing at the brown-haired doctor. "How _dare_ he!"

Wilson blinked. "Excuse me?"

"There's no excuse for you," Sherlock snapped back, shifting his glare to John. "Oh, put that away and go get Mycroft. This is _intolerable_."

Like a genie summoned, the door opened and Mycroft entered. "I could hear you all the way down the hall, Sherlock," he said mildly. "And yes, I called him - I thought it best, considering your condition. Luckily for you, he was in London for a medical conference."

"Oh, marvelous." Sherlock mulishly folded his arms across his chest, thumping back against his pillows. "I don't _need_ him, Mycroft."

John's head swiveled from sibling to sibling as he watched the verbal tennis match. From the corner of his eye, he could see Wilson doing the same thing. _Who the hell are they talking about?_

"Of course you don't, Sherlock," Mycroft said dryly. "I have full confidence in your ability to diagnose yourself, considering your medical degree. Oh - wait." He held up a finger in mock surprise. "You don't have one."

"I have John for that," Sherlock spat.

"While Dr. Watson is undoubtedly a superlative combat physician, I suspect he may be somewhat out of his depth when it comes to diagnosing unusual toxins," Mycroft said crisply. "Which is why I brought in, if you'll pardon the Americanism, the A team."

John realized he was still holding the gun on Wilson, and quickly lowered it. "So you're the A team?" he said, slightly incredulous.

"More like the waterboy," Wilson admitted, a touch of color coming back into his face now. "The A team's holed up in his office - I'm just here to take Sherlock's medical history."

"That's already in my file," Sherlock sniped.

Wilson had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Yeah, but House never trusts anyone else's reports," he explained. "He thinks everyone lies."

Sherlock's brow furrowed at that. "Everyone _does_," he said, as if it were blatantly self-evident.

To John's surprise, the American doctor grinned. "Now I see it," he said, half to himself. "Look, since I'm already here, let's go over your medical history - without the lies, if possible."

Grumbling about idiotic repetitions, Sherlock did so. Both he and John filled in pertinent bits when Wilson asked about the explosion; they'd both been hit by small pieces of shrapnel before diving in the pool, waiting under the water until they were sure the building wasn't on fire or about to collapse on them. When they finally surfaced, gasping, Moriarty and his snipers were gone, and one corner of the pool was covered in smoking wreckage.

"And when did your first symptoms appear?" Wilson said, jotting down notes.

"Approximately six hours later. I became nauseated, and vomited bile," Sherlock said, grimacing at the memory. "It appeared to be the normal pale yellow-green color - no sign of blood or contaminants."

"Well, that's...good," Wilson said, slightly bemused. "Okay, I think this is enough for now - once we finish reviewing your labs, we can talk about treatment options."

"Excellent. And now, I need to have a private word with my brother," Mycroft said. "Dr. Wilson, why don't you introduce Dr. Watson to your colleague? I suspect he'll find the experience fascinating."

John hesitated at Sherlock's wary look. "Um-"

A hint of steel entered the elder Holmes' tone. "I assure you, Dr. Watson, my brother will be well-guarded in your absence." _You may go_ wasn't said but was most definitely implied.

_Sorry, mate._ Reluctantly, John gave Sherlock an encouraging nod and followed Wilson out into the hallway. The suited men stationed at the doorway didn't move, but somehow managed to give the impression of crossing spears. "Well..."

"Well." The American doctor suddenly looked abashed, sticking out his hand. "Oh, sorry - James Wilson. Oncology."

John shook his hand. "John Watson. Barely employed," he said with a small smile. "So why would I find your colleague fascinating?"

"Because my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard?" an acerbic voice said.

Wilson sighed as a tall, thin man with close-cropped graying hair and three days' worth of stubble limped up to them. "John, this is Dr. Greg House," he explained. "House, this is Dr. John Watson, Sherlock's flatmate."

John glanced at House's cane, a customized job in matte black with flames around the base. House smirked. "Yeah, I pimp my ride," he said in a nasal American accent. "I see you don't need yours anymore, though."

"How-" Something niggled at John, something about the man's face. It was all...horribly familiar, somehow. "All right, how are you related to Sherlock?" he demanded. "Uncle? Second cousin twice removed?"

The tall man's eyes gleamed in approval. "Wrong," he announced. "Biodad. Also your boyfriend's only hope, judging from his records." He frowned. "Huh - maybe you should call me Obi Wan, instead."

"He's not my, we're not, why does everyone think we're dating?" John spluttered, before blinking. "Wait - what?"

"Biodad," House enunciated. "Short for biological father, or did they not teach you that term in medical school? Man, it's a good thing I never wanted grandkids, anyway - with my luck, they'd get your brains and Sherlock's personality." He whipped the cane up, tapping Wilson's chart with it. "Got the latest scoop?"

"Yes, Obi Wan," Wilson said dryly.

House's grin was positively vulpine. "Excellent, Padawan learner. Since I'm the boss and can wake my minions whenever I feel like it, let's go perform a trans-Atlantic differential diagnosis."

He stumped off down the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder at John and Wilson. "You two coming or what?"

John started at the unexpected invitation. "Oh _God_, yes," he muttered.


	3. Metaphase

**Disclaimer:** All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Moff" Moffat, the BBC, Fox, David Shore, Katie Jacobs, Bryan Singer, et al. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Author's Note:** Sorry about the delay - you do NOT want to know what the last couple of months have been like.

* * *

In The Genes: Metaphase

By Alice Day

* * *

John felt slightly odd, sitting on the hospital bed next to Wilson, but House had taken the only other seat in the room, so it was the bed or stand.

"Goooooood morning, Princeton," the diagnostician announced, aiming his voice at the speakerphone he'd plopped on the desk. He'd already introduced the disembodied voices on the other end of the line as Robert Chase, Eric Foreman and Chris Taub, his departmental fellows. "We have two additional contestants in our differential today - my favorite sloe-eyed oncologist and meal ticket-"

"Thanks," Wilson said with a sigh

"And a trigger-happy ex-Royal Army doc named John Watson." House bared his teeth in a rictus grin. "Be nice to him - I don't want to get shot again."

_Again?_ "Er, hello," John said.

House got up and limped to the whiteboard, uncapping a dry erase marker. "We also have a thirty year old male, presenting with thunderclap headaches, chest pain, nausea and vomiting. Was involved in a minor explosion at a swimming pool a couple of days ago, and dived into said pool to avoid the blast - the explosion released a grayish, oily residue that is still being analyzed because apparently the labs in Old Blighty haven't heard of fast-tracking test results. To make things even more fun, Dr. Watson was also present and is currently asymptomatic. Poisoning is our best bet, but I'm not ruling out allergies or other organic causes. Go."

"Wait, he was in an explosion?" someone with an Australian twang - Chase - asked.

"Minor," House reiterated. "Wound up with some bruising, but nothing broke the skin."

"What makes you think he was poisoned?" a smooth baritone - Foreman - spoke up next.

House made a long-suffering face at the phone. "Because his personality makes me look like Cuddlebunny of the Year, plus he's a consulting detective with a psychopathic criminal playmate who likes to fight dirty," he said, whacking the whiteboard with his cane. Both Wilson and John jumped. "Diagnosis."

"Pesticide," Taub said. "Organophosphates can cause headaches, nausea and vomiting. It's been used before in bombs - could have been released with the explosion."

"Good," House said, scrawling _Organophosphates_ on the whiteboard.

"What about barotrauma?" Chase suggested. "The pressure from the explosion could have caused damage to his lungs or GI tract."

"Not bad - covers nausea and chest pain, and a mini-bleed could have thrown off a clot or two." House added it to the whiteboard.

John raised his hand diffidently. "Right, no, because I didn't suffer from any barotrauma, and I was exposed to more of the explosion than he was," he pointed out.

That earned him a mocking look that was almost Sherlock-worthy. "Yes, I know that, Dead-Eye, but you're shorter and stockier than Sherlock," House said. "If there was any sort of damaging pressure differential, chances are your extra padding would have absorbed it before it hit a vital organ."

John reddened. He wasn't _that_ much out of shape, dammit. "Oi-"

He felt a restraining hand on his arm, and saw Wilson shaking his head. "You do remember he's armed, right?" the oncologist said.

House rolled his eyes. "Fine - you're not fat, you're big-boned. Pesticide and barotrauma - what else?"

"Any history of drug use?" Taub asked. "It could cause heart and respiratory problems that were aggravated by the explosion."

Both House and Wilson turned to John. "Well?" House said.

John hesitated. This couldn't be covered under doctor-patient confidentiality, even if Sherlock was legitimately his patient, because they needed the data in order to save his life. Still, it made him feel disloyal. "Cocaine - I don't know for how long," he admitted. "Check with Mycroft for exact dates. But he's been clean for the last five years." And then he remembered Lestrade's drug bust that first night at the flat, and Sherlock's glare when John oh-so-innocently declared that there couldn't be anything illegal there. "At least, he says he's clean."

To his surprise, House winced. _Oh, right - finding out your estranged son used to be an addict can't be pleasant. _"Cocaine means possible heart damage, venous ruptures, and respiratory problems," he muttered, adding the newest diagnosis to the whiteboard. "Anything else he's been shooting, snorting or smoking?"

"Nicotine patches. He tends to use two or three when he needs to think."

House scowled. "And it never occurred to you to stop him?"

John felt the flush come back, hotter this time. "And how exactly do you propose I do that?" he snapped back. "Or was I supposed to wrestle someone five inches taller than me to the ground and rip the damn things off his arm?"

Wilson snorted at that, earning a glare from House. "Yeah, yeah, you can remind me of my character flaws later," he said to his friend. "Right now, I want an upper body MRI, chem-7, full tox screen including organophosphates, and I want him on ACE inhibitors for now - if he's got a slow bleed somewhere, that should take some of the pressure off."

Nodding, Wilson got up and left. "And you three are officially on call until we get this resolved, so don't even think about going home," House said to the speakerphone. "Foreman, have Cuddy send one of her flunkies to get whatever you need - you're there until I say you can leave."

"You know, I'm pretty sure Massa Lincoln done freed the slaves," Foreman drawled back.

House gave the phone a feral grin. "As far as I'm concerned, the 13th Amendment never happened, and all three of your asses still belong to me. I'm emailing test results as I get them - I want everything double-checked. Get moving." He used his cane to cut off the call, then limped back to the chair, dropping into it with a grunt.

Now that the tirade was over, John found himself studying his flatmate's father. There were similarities in body and facial structure, particularly around the eyes, but House's physical presence was slower, more deliberate than his son's. His limp - definitely not psychosomatic - and the slight hunch in his posture spoke of chronic pain. _And chronic pain usually means an addiction to prescription painkillers._ Judging from House's reaction and Wilson's veiled comment, John wondered if deliberate drug abuse was something that ran in the House/Holmes line.

"So that's it," he asked. "Pesticides, barotraumas, and the knock-on effects of cocaine use?"

"It's a start," House said, flat. "Why cocaine? I would've thought he'd want to shut his brain off, not jack it up even more."

John shrugged. He'd never understood the reasoning either. "Apparently he did it when he was bored - made things less boring. As for shutting off his brain, I don't think he actually can."

House made a rude noise. "Idiot."

"Yeah, that was my opinion, too." John pursed his lips, then decided to ask."So, what were you on?"

The older man's eyes were a different color from Sherlock's, but their glare still felt like a bloody laser blast. John lifted his chin a bit, waiting.

Finally, the diagnostician nodded. "Okay. Vicodin. And not until after my infarction." House tapped the side of his leg with the cane. "And I'm off it now, so spare me the lectures."

"Didn't plan on lecturing you-"

The door banged open and Wilson leaned in, pale. "Sherlock's seizing."

###

House limped into chaos. The other two doctors had run ahead; John was now arguing fiercely with a ward nurse while Wilson and another nurse worked to flatten Sherlock's hospital bed, bring up the side rails and cushion his head against the uncontrolled jerking of his body. On autopilot, House checked the bleeping heart monitor - 130 and rising.

"I'm his bloody doctor, dammit!" John shouted, trying to peer around the nurse's blue-clad body.

"You don't have privileges here," the nurse insisted.

"Yeah, but I do," House snapped, shouldering her aside. "So move your ass and get me 10 milligrams of diazepam, _now_."

The nurse glared at him, but jogged out of the room. John lurched to the bed, staring at his twitching flatmate. "When did this start?" he demanded.

"About two minutes ago," the other nurse said, locking the other safety rail into place. "He was complaining about being bored just as Dr. Wilson came in, and then his eyes rolled up mid-whinge and he started seizing."

House limped to the foot of the hospital bed. "You give him the ACE inhibitors yet?" he asked Wilson.

"Didn't even get a chance to order them."

The first nurse came back, syringe in hand. House grabbed it from her, flicking off the needle cap. "Hold his hand," he ordered.

Grimacing, John pinned Sherlock's hand to the mattress, and House injected the drug into the port. "All right, let him go."

"What? But-"

"You hang onto him, he can break something," House snapped. "Let him go."

Flushing, John obeyed.

Seconds crawled by, and House was about to order another five milligrams when Sherlock's convulsion began to ease. Panting, he sagged back onto the mattress, eyelids fluttering against the last of the random neuronal firing. There was a sudden acrid smell, and House knew the younger man's bladder had cut loose.

Sherlock's curly head rolled on the pillow, eyes trying to focus. "John," he muttered. "What..."

John touched his flatmate's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I'm here," he said. "You're all right now."

"What-" Sherlock swallowed once, his throat working. "What happened?"

"You had a seizure, but it's under control," the blond doctor said, trying to sound reassuring and not quite managing it. "You scared the piss out of me, mate."

"Piss." With a frown, Sherlock struggled to sit up, then peered under his sheet. He reddened. "Oh."

House remembered when he'd been shot, the humiliation of urinating in his hospital bed. He wasn't sure if Sherlock would want John's help getting cleaned up, but he knew damn well his own presence wasn't needed right now. "Yo, Florence Nightingale - go get some clean bedding and a gown," he said to the nurse as he limped towards the door. "Wilson, order the ACE. I'm going back to the office, take another look at the board-"

"Wait."

House turned back to find Sherlock staring at him, still somewhat bleary from the seizure but recovering with astonishing speed. "I don't care what Mycroft told you," he said slowly, each word low and tense with anger. "I don't want you here, and I certainly don't need you here."

House grimaced. _Yup - the little bastard's mine._ "Well, your mother does," he growled. "So for her sake, I'm here until I figure out what's wrong with you. You got a problem with that, deal with it on your own time - I've got work to do."

He stumped out of the room, irrationally pleased when something (a plastic water jug from the sound of it) crashed against the other side of the door.

###

"Is House always like that?" John asked.

Wilson sighed. "Pretty much. And is Sherlock usually...um..."

"That much of a pain in the arse? Oh, yeah."

"Must run in the family," Wilson said gloomily.

The two doctors were sitting (or hiding, if John had to be honest) in the hospital canteen, at a table near the back of the seating area, after Sherlock had chased them both from his hospital room with an acid-edged level of commentary usually reserved for Anderson.

I suppose I can't blame him, John thought, stirring his tea. Convulsion or no, any rational adult would be mortified by the fact that he'd wet his bed in front of a room full of strangers, not to mention a flatmate and an estranged father. _Hell, that might have actually made it worse._ Which was why John ignored his initial instinct to clip the consulting detective round the earhole; instead, he fell back on his instinctive Britishness and offered to buy Wilson a cup of tea.

Wilson accepted with gratitude. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that House has a son," he said, sipping his tea. "I mean, we've been friends for over ten years. I met his parents, got him through the breakup with Stacy, went to his dad's funeral - and you don't want to know what he pulled there. Even lived with him for a couple of months." He paused, blinking. "Um, we didn't _live_ live together - I mean, we had separate bedrooms-"

John held up a hand. "Trust me," he said. "I understand."

The brown-eyed doctor looked relieved. "Okay. The thing is, I know stuff about House that could get him tossed in jail until he's ninety. But this-" He whistled softly, gesturing with a hand. "Bolt from the blue."

John fiddled with his cup. "Can't say I've known Sherlock that long, but I didn't expect this, either," he admitted. "Although it does explain why he and Mycroft are constantly sniping at each other. I just thought it was a pissing match over who was cleverer." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "This is the first time I've met Mrs. Holmes, though. She's...um…"

"Gorgeous," Wilson supplied. "I see where Sherlock gets his cheekbones from. And she's impressive as hell, too."

"Yeah. An Oxford maths prof - explains the brain behind the cheekbones." John leaned back in his chair, taking a swig of tea. "So, what's House like, then?"

Wilson shrugged. "Brilliant, arrogant, narcissistic, a complete and utter pain in the ass about half the time, hasn't given a rat's ass about other people's feelings until recently, and still thinks he's God's gift to diagnostics. Which is true, but it doesn't help much when you just want to punch him." He gave John a thoughtful look. "So what's Sherlock like?"

John couldn't resist. "Brilliant, arrogant, probably asexual, behaves like a five year old far too often, takes an unholy glee in insulting people, and is one of the finest detectives in the world," he said, grinning. "And yeah, sometimes I want to punch him, too, especially when he drags me out at 2 AM to go look at a crime scene or leaves body parts in the fridge."

Wilson winced. "Okay, House never did that. But I bet Sherlock never got your bank accounts frozen by the police or stole your prescription pad for his own recreational use, either."

"This is true. I did wind up with an ASBO because of him, though."

"ASBO?"

"Anti-Social Behaviour Order. 'S what you give kids who've been spray-painting graffiti or breaking windows. Thanks to him, I can't go to the National Gallery anymore. And later on he crashed the first date I'd had in a year."

"Oh, you think that's bad?" Wilson hooted. "House showed up once when I was on a date and proposed to me. In front of my date and the entire restaurant."

"Every restaurant owner in London already thinks we're dating," John said. "And as for my real date, did I mention that Sarah and I were then kidnapped by Chinese smugglers who thought I was Sherlock, and they almost killed her with this dirty great spear-chucking device?"

Wilson paused. "Okay, you win," he admitted. "Both father and son are certifiable maniacs. And we're their sidekicks, God help us."

John held up his teacup, and Wilson tapped his own against it. "To sidekicks," the blond doctor announced. "Because someone has to take care of those maniacs."

"And we're the only ones crazy enough to do it," Wilson agreed.


End file.
